


Marked

by callay



Category: Dominion (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen-ish, Smut, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:50:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2096391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/pseuds/callay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alex doesn’t even want to think of what he looks like to Michael, naked, sweaty, and trembling, marked everywhere by a thick forest of ever-shifting tattoos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marked

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after the vision scene in 1x05 “Something Borrowed.” Not canon-compliant in the slightest.
> 
> I wouldn't describe this as body horror, but if you've very sensitive to weird body discomfort you might not like it.
> 
> _The tattoos ship Malex._ \- [knucklewhite](archiveofourown.org/users/knucklewhite)

“What did you see?” asks Michael, and Alex swallows.

Waking up from the vision has left him awkward, discombobulated. Bixby’s voice echoes in his head. The room is too hot, Michael’s hand on his shoulder itches, and he doesn’t want to think about what he saw.

He can feel Michael looking down at him and he has to answer something.

“Who I’m fighting for,” he says brusquely.

His limbs are stiff but he pushes himself to his feet, heads to the door without looking at Michael. He doesn’t know which is worse, the markings for being so never giving him anything concrete and useful, or Michael for pushing him into these situations. But at the moment, he just wants out, wants to go do something actually useful.

His skin feels like it’s crawling. He rubs a hand over his shoulder.

“Alex.”

Michael’s voice is not quite alarmed, but there’s an element of surprise that convinces Alex to stop and turn around.

“Look, can’t I just –“ 

“Your shoulder,” says Michael.

Alex looks down at his left shoulder and sees the markings are moving on his skin. The intricate script on each line is twisting, bending itself into new shapes. And the markings are spreading, too, the thick bands on his upper arm splitting into new lines that crawl up his shoulder. 

Immediately Alex is intensely aware of the strange itching feeling in his skin. He’d been feeling it since he stood up, but it’s only now that it pushes to the front of his mind. It’s focused in his shoulder, matches up with the movement of the markings.

It feels good, actually, a tingling just under his skin. Or it would feel good if it weren’t for the _inescapability_ of it. Because it’s not letting up, it’s only getting stronger as the markings keep shifting, spreading, reaching in towards his neck and across his collarbone.

Instinctively Alex clamps his hand over his shoulder. His hand feels hot against the tattooed skin but does nothing to stop the movement – he can see the tendrils of tattoos start to emerge from under his hand.

“What’s going on?” he says, alarmed. He wonders if it’s a vision, like when he saw the tattoos being washed away while in prison, but when he looks up Michael is staring intently at his shoulder too, eyebrows drawn together.

“Can you read them?”

Alex tries. There are a few moments when he thinks he sees a recognizable word amidst the twisting symbols, but he’s too distracted by the crawling feeling to make any sense of it.

He swallows and shakes his head. Michael just frowns, staring at the shifting markings, head slightly cocked.

The markings are showing no sign of stopping. Alex’s whole left shoulder is covered in tattoos, much denser than the others and still twisting in place. They’re spreading faster now, the broad line that curves down his chest branching off to form new thickets of script, the empty spaces on his back filling in.

Several lines are tracing up the side of his neck. The skin there is sensitive, and the feeling’s even more intense. It feels really good, a strong but delicate tingling like nothing he’s felt before. But it’s terrible at the same time, like being held down and tickled, too much sensation, crawling inexorably up toward his face and down across his ribs.

Alex is sweating, fists clenched, and doesn’t know what to do. Michael’s just watching him. “How do I make it stop?” grits out Alex.

“I don’t know,” says Michael pensively.

“Great,” hisses Alex. A thick line is arching up his face to trace his cheekbone, and he can’t help bringing up a hand to touch the prickling skin. But his fingers just feel painfully hot against the tattoos and he pulls away with a gasp.

“Try to reenter the meditative state,” Michael suggests.

“I can’t, I can’t exactly clear my mind, it’s – oh fuck –“

Because there’s a central band of markings that’s been crawling up his chin, and it’s almost at his mouth. He has the horrible feeling that it’s going to keep going, over his tongue and down his throat, and the tattoos will fill him up. He knows he won’t be able to take that, tortured by the sweet tingling feeling of it both inside and out.

He holds his breath as the tattoos prick their way up his bottom lip, heart pounding frantically, and they do curve over his lip into his mouth, but they stop at his teeth.

Alex’s sigh of relief comes out shaky.

Michael’s looking at him, eyebrows drawn up in something like concern. “Are you all right?”

“No! These tattoos are driving me crazy!” 

He spins on his heel, wants to pace, like maybe that will distract him from the exquisite feeling of it. One brain isn’t enough to process this much sensation. He can’t tell if it’s pleasure that feels like pain, or pain that feels like pleasure, and he can’t tell where it’s coming from, arm or stomach or back or neck or fucking _scalp_.

He takes a few forceful strides away from Michael, trying to take deep breaths through the jitter of his heart. The two thick lines of markings on his stomach are both moving, shifting in place and sending out new branches, the tingling following them down –

Alex freezes because it _hurts_. Actual pain, wherever the markings move under the waistband of his pants. The fabric feels rough and unbearably hot against his skin, and he needs it gone.

“Fuck it,” he mutters, attacking his fly. He’s taking off his pants, and he doesn’t care what Michael thinks. As quickly as he can he shoves down his pants and underwear, kicks them off.

“Alex?”

“Hurts,” he pants, not looking over his shoulder at Michael. He’s a little distracted, by two things.

First of all, he’s hard. He didn’t even realize it, because his mind is buzzing and his skin feels tight and hot _everywhere_. But now that he’s looking down at himself, he can feel his cock throbbing, but it’s distant, eclipsed the ceaseless tingling thrill of the tattoos.

Except that secondly, the markings have curled over his hips and are crawling inwards, tendrils reaching toward his groin.

Alex isn’t prepared for how much he suddenly, desperately wants to feel the markings on his cock.

He’s terrified of it, too, because he doesn’t know if he can take it. He already feels like he’s about to come apart, burst at his many twisting seams, tremble himself into nothingness.

This isn’t okay, he thinks furiously. It’s not fair that he has to go through this without even understanding what’s going on. He just wants to know why this is happening, especially now, especially here in Michael’s room, but –

But he can’t think anymore. Two lines creep onto his shaft, diagonally, spiraling slowly up, until every inch of his cock is on fire with a sweet tingling, like the brush of tiny, prickling feathers.

It feels insanely good. Insane being the key word. Alex doesn’t think he’s even breathing. He finds he’s stumbled forward to a nearby wall and is leaning against it, bracing himself with his forearms to keep from falling.

Nothing’s getting easier. It’s not like stepping under a steaming shower and eventually getting used to it. Every part of him is just as raw and sensitive as ever, and the markings are only spreading.

There are lines tracing over his ass now, and he’s always been sensitive there, ticklish in the crease between ass and leg. All he can do is lean against the wall, and try to breathe, and _feel_ as the markings curve down his ass, dip into the crease, and slide down the soft skin of his thighs. It feels far too good, too intense, and he’s already way past his breaking point.

“Alex?” Michael’s tense voice comes from close behind him. Alex doesn’t even want to think of what he looks like to Michael, naked, sweaty, and trembling, marked almost everywhere by a thick forest of ever-shifting tattoos.

When did this become his life?

“Either help me or leave me alone,” he says. Maybe he can die of sensory overload in peace.

Michael reaches out and puts a hand on his shoulder.

Oh, _fuck_. And Alex had thought it couldn’t get any worse.

It’s like Michael’s touch flips a switch and suddenly everything is _sex_. Instead of tingling individually like innumerable sparks, the tattoos are suddenly throbbing in sync, matching the beat of his racing heart. Instead of just being sensitive to touch, his skin is burning at the brush of the very air around him.

And Michael’s hand. It’s just a touch, but it feels monumental, both the fulfillment of Alex’s wildest fantasies and only the barest tip of the iceberg of everything he suddenly, desperately wants Michael to do to him.

Alex pulls away from Michael, stumbles in even closer to the wall, leans his head against it.

He tries to catch his breath and can’t. Tries to clear his head and can’t. He’s totally occupied with the sheer physical sensation of the pulsing tattoos, except for the part of him that’s busy fantasizing about Michael touching him everywhere the tattoos are. He can’t stop thinking about it, Michael touching him, the side of his face and the backs of his knees, his collarbone and his shoulder blades, his cock and the crease of his ass.

“Go away,” he manages, both to fantasy Michael and to real Michael standing behind him.

And yes, maybe he sometimes thinks about Michael like that, gorgeous Michael with his dark eyes and soft lips, but he knows very well that it’s out of the question. Michael is an archangel, _the_ archangel, and Alex doesn't even think Michael's interested in guys, and –

And none of this is having any effect whatsoever at the raging _need_ thrumming through Alex’s body.

“The tattoos have stopped moving,” Michael says. And Alex hadn’t noticed that, actually. He’s been a bit busy pressing his forehead to the wall and trying to stop himself from falling to his knees at Michael’s feet.

“Can you read them?” continues Michael.

And Alex actually tries, lifts his head to look at his arm. All the tattoos are there, the new ones lined up with the sparser old ones, but they’re unmoving. He can’t read a thing. Although maybe that has to do with the visions of Michael naked that keep floating in front of his mind’s eye.

“I can’t fucking read them,” he snaps, frustrated.

There’s silence. Alex wonders if Michael is staring at him with annoyance. Then instead he wonders if Michael is staring at him with desire. For a moment he can almost feel the touch of Michael’s gaze on his oversensitive skin, imagines it tracking down his back to the curve of his ass. Without thinking, Alex spreads his legs further, arches his back to tilt his ass up toward Michael.

He hears Michael take a sharp breath, and finally the tiny remaining rational part of his brain kicks in and he tries to take a more normal pose. But it’s too late.

“What’s going on, Alex?” asks Michael quietly.

Alex doesn’t say anything, doesn’t know if he can open his mouth without begging.

“Alex, turn around.”

He wants to. His whole body is throbbing with it, desire pulsing through every curve and corner of the tattoos. But there’s one small part of him still clinging to the hope that he can get through this without humiliating himself completely in front of Michael.

And if the tattoos are capable of things like this, he’s definitely going to need Michael’s guidance.

So he grits his teeth and doesn’t move. “Leave me alone,” he says hoarsely.

“Alex.” Michael’s voice is stern. “Turn around.”

Alex presses his fists to the wall and shakes his head. "Can't."

Michael reaches out and grabs his arm, tries to pull him around. He doesn’t even need to use any force, because at his touch, Alex’s last resistance drowns in the flood of hot need that spreads from Michael’s hand.

And then he’s standing in front of Michael, trembling, hands fisted at his sides, cock bobbing in front of him. 

Michael just looks at him, eyes dipping all the way down and then back up. Alex squirms under his gaze like it’s a physical touch, body singing with the arousal pulsing in the tattoos.

When Michael looks at Alex’s face again, his eyes have sharpened with desire.

“Michael, please, I need –” gasps out Alex helplessly, but then Michael is on him.

He pulls Alex close with an arm around his back, grabs his hair with his other hand, and kisses him hard.

Alex is too overwhelmed to do anything but moan against Michael’s mouth. There’s so much happening at once, and he's certain he'll never feel this good again, so he wants to remember everything. But he’s only able to grasp a few things at a time. Michael’s fingers in his hair, pressed against the tattoos on his scalp. The way his cock rubs against Michael’s body, warm and strong even through his clothes. The pounding of his heart and his pulse echoing the rhythm through every throbbing part of him. Michael’s tongue against his, warm and wet and perfect.

This is it.

This is all he can take.

Michael reaches for his cock, starts to stroke him, but Alex is already done. He comes so hard he cries out, so hard he spatters his own chest. So hard that his ears ring and he sees nothing but stars for a long time.

When he finally returns to himself, it’s with a sense of peace. He’s satisfied, happy to lean against Michael for a moment and relish the _calm_ coming from his body.

And Alex opens his eyes, and he can read the markings.


End file.
